The Untold Story
by lsmyang
Summary: Alex's imprisonment in the Crypts, his escape, and his journey through the Wilds leading up to the end of Pandemonium.


I am dead.

At first, there is only blackness. Every time I resurface, an aching pain in my chest pulls me back to unconsciousness. Reality seeps in slowly. It nips at the edges of my endless sleep, like wisps of white smoke contrasting the wide dark night. But whenever I try to catch it, it slips away, like water flowing through the spaces between my fingers, and I am enveloped by the darkness once again. Over time, I become conscious of the sound of shuffling footsteps, of the lingering smell of death, of the scuttling of rats.

Slowly, I come back to life.

Eventually, I gain the strength to open my eyes. The first sight is refreshing after seeing nothing but black for so long, like the first breath after resurfacing from the water after a long dive. I take in a shuddering breath, and gag. The putrid smell of rot and decay makes my stomach lurch. I roll over just in time to throw up, even though my stomach is empty, and cough up air and bile onto the already filthy floor. I don't think this place has ever known the meaning of _clean_. Having exhausted all of my energy already, I roll over onto my back once more and lay still, unmoving.

I survey the grimy walls around me which are encrusted with layers and layers of dirt, too filthy to ever be scrubbed clean, even if you work your hands to the bone.

I am in the Crypts. I am in ward 6.

I am dead.

Or as good as dead.

No one lives long in ward 6; that's why they call it the dead ward.

But my life isn't here; it's out there.

Not out there in the gleaming streets of Portland. Not safe, boring, constant, love-free Portland. No. My life is out there, the _real_ there. There in the Wilds. The beautiful, chaotic, liberating, loving Wilds. My life is out there with Lena.

I'm not here anymore.

All that's left of me is a shell: just a body. My mind is in the Wilds, my spirit is soaring in the sky amongst the clouds, and my soul is wherever Lena is. Wherever she goes, I follow.

"You're awake," a voice cuts through my thoughts.

I turn my head toward the source of the noise. A guard hovers outside my cell carrying a bowl full of mush that's threatening to slosh onto the floor. His skin is blemished with acne and his hair flops in his face like overcooked spaghetti. I know him. Frank Dorset. I met him with Lena a couple of days – or is it weeks – ago, when we came here to look for her mother.

"Eat," he says, pushing the bowl through the metal bars and into my cell. "You've been out cold for a week. Thought you were dead."

A week. I've been here for a week. It's been a week since Lena's escape – since our botched escape. It's been a week since I've seen her. For some reason, it feels much, much longer than a week.

Franks turns to leave, but something stops him. He looks at me, his eyes full of an emotion that I can't pinpoint. Sympathy? No. Disbelief? Suspicion? Hatred? He hesitates for a few moments before opening his mouth again. "You know, I was in a bit of a shock when they dragged you in here."

"What do you mean?" The words come out quiet and raspy. My throat feels like a rusty machine that hasn't been used for centuries: all dry and creaky and hoarse.

"I remember you, from a while ago. You came with that girl – she's the one you infected, isn't she?" he nods his head in understanding. "You seemed like a proper fella. Didn't suspect you of anything, with your security badge and all."

"Why am I here?" I croak.

"Why are you here?" he sneers at me, displaying a row of yellow rotten teeth. "You are here because you're a filthy invalid, that's why."

"I didn't mean that," I say impatiently. "Why didn't they just put another bullet in me to end it?"

"Guess they didn't want you to get off easy. You were half dead when they dumped you here." He says. "There's a special place in Hell for people like you, and you just found your way in." He laughs humorlessly and walks away. I listen to the sound of his footsteps fade in the distance.

_Hell_.

No, I would never be sent to Hell for this. Life isn't that cruel.

I'm not the criminal here. They are. They crave order and compliance. They are malicious and cruel and unnatural. They trap people within their boundaries like birds trapped in cages. They strip them of their emotions and freedom and their ability to love, and they dare call it a good deed, as if this is the way life is supposed to be. But then, I wonder if they ever question why we are born with the ability to love, if it is such a horrid thing. You are not supposed to cage a bird because it belongs to the open skies. You are not supposed to destroy our ability to love because it is what makes us human. I have done no wrong. I merely did what should have been a long time ago: I unlocked the cage because, after all, all good things are wild and free.

* * *

The days blur together like individual frames on a film strip running through a machine. I can't distinguish one day between the next. A constant moaning rings through the hallway – a terrible, dreadful sound. It is the sound of life ebbing out of those imprisoned within the cold walls. What haunts me even more than the eerie moaning ricocheting off of the bare stone walls are my dreams – dreams dreamt by unguided thoughts.

I see Lena all the time.

We have picnics; we splash around in fountains; she dances through fields of flowers, twirling in her pristine white dress; she lies with me on the beach, whispering about make-believe worlds; she's with me everywhere.

But she's never here when I wake up, and so, I always wake with a pang of longing in my chest that makes my heart ache terribly. I am haunted by the memory of her.

But right now, I see her. I am with her. She's lying on the beach, tanned and beautiful, her eyes as large as the moon.

Then, I jerk awake, thinking I'd heard her voice in my ears. My head whips wildly from side to side, searching for her face, searching for the moon in her eyes, but I only see the grimy walls of my cell. Crushed by the suffocating memories of my past, I fall asleep again, both willingly and defiantly.

The next time I wake, I am free from the filthy cell of the Crypts.

The world is a blur of glowing colours when I open my eyes. It takes a few seconds for my vision to focus before I realize I am lying in the backyard of 37 Brooks.

Patches of sunlight break through the thickly woven canopy of branches overhead, dotting the garden with blazing yellow spots. Lena is sprawled out beside me absentmindedly running her fingers along my arms, tracing my veins and drawing swirling patterns.

I subtly shift my body, rolling onto my side to face her.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" she asks.

I trace the outline of her face with my eyes. The curve of her lips, the bridge of her nose, the curl of her dark eyelashes. Sunlight hits her hair, illuminating the striking shades of gold and amber. A soft breeze ruffles the loose strands of hair around her face, framing her in a vibrant, flaming crown. She doesn't look like a memory. She looks so, so real.

"Are you really here?" I whisper, my hand inching toward her face, but my fingers linger in the air, hovering just below the curve of her cheek. No matter how hard I will myself, I can't seem to close the distance between us. After dreaming about her for so long, I have lost the courage to face the disappointment of yet another memory of her. I miss her too much.

"What do you mean?" She asks gently, taking my hand and resting it against her cheek. The warmness of her skin seeps through my fingertips. "Of course I'm here. I've never left; I never will."

"I know," I sigh. "I just missed you."

"Of course you did," she says, resting her head on my shoulder. "It was a very long nap that you had, you know. You slept for four whole minutes. I'm turning into an old wrinkly lady already, waiting for you to wake up." She crosses her arms in mock displeasure.

I frown and poke her nose. "You're pretty cute for an old wrinkly lady."

She giggles and nestles her face into my neck. I wrap both arms around her and pull her closer to me so we're skin to skin, but no matter how close she is – even when space is nonexistent between our bodies – I still feel like we're thousands of miles apart.

Time has worn me down; it has made me afraid.

I bury my face in her hair and breathe in the scent of lavender shampoo. I let the scent of her fill up my body. I let it settle into every crack and crevice; I let it push my fear aside; I let it push out my uneasiness; I let it push away the nagging feeling that something isn't right.

The day stretches on like every other hot August afternoon that we've shared. We bask in the hazy, warm, comforting summer air – a tangle of arms and legs amidst a vast sea of towering trees and vibrant flowers.

"Frolicking is a good word," Lena says.

"Dancing," I say.

"Dance with me," she says, and I do

We sway to the rhythm of the rustling grass in the breeze. I rest my hands against the small of her back, and she drapes her arms around my neck. I feel the soft tapping of my heart against my ribcage: _thump thump stop_. The world melts away around me until there is nothing left but the two of us. Only Lena and I and happiness from sun up to moon up.

"Love me," she says, and I do, to the sound of birds and rustling leaves, crickets and buzzing bees, and the soft tune hummed through my lips, to the step of her lightly treading feet.

I kiss the tip of her nose, her bare shoulders, her collarbones, her fluttering eyelashes. Together, we twirl and dance around the garden: her clumsily stumbling over tree roots, and me startling resting wild bunnies. We dance until the pink glow of the setting sun has pulled its embrace from the sky and left in its place thousands of twinkling stars.

I feel dots of wetness seeping through my shirt, and I lift my eyes to the sky, ready to curse the heavens for allowing it to rain on such a perfect day, only to find no clouds disturbing the tranquil blackness of the night. Then I realize the drops of water falling on my shirt aren't raindrops – they are tears.

"Why are you crying?" I ask.

"I'm not, Alex. You are."

Surprised, I touch my wet cheeks, and realize she's right. _Why am I crying?_

Lena pulls away from me with an apologetic look in her eyes. "I'm sorry Alex, I have to go."

"Why? Why can't you stay here with me?" I ask. I drag the back of my hand over my eyes, but the tears will not stop. They keep pouring down my face, tracing little rivers down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt.

"I don't belong here."

"What do you mean you don't belong here? It's 37 Brooks. We've been coming here all summer."

"No Alex, we're not at 37 Brooks. We're in the Crypts."

"No we – " The smell of her lavender shampoo, I notice, has been replaced with the bitter scent of rot and decay.

"I don't belong here, Alex, but you do." She plants a fleeting kiss on my lips – a soft brushing of skin against skin – and backs away.

I try to follow her, but something stops me. I push and I shove and I scratch. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can't break the barrier that separates me from Lena. My heart sputters to a stop. This is what dying must feel like – dying when you're not ready to die. This is what it must feel like to have the claws of death pull your life away from you, when all you really want is to hang on to that one last sliver of light, to breathe, to feel the steady beating of your heart in your chest. In the end, death always wins. It drowns you in your own despair. I wonder if death enjoys tearing people away from the one thing they want most.

I watch her walk away, counting each step that she takes, counting each step that takes her away from me. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. My vision blurs as tears form a watery film over my eyes.

I shout and I scream and I make a ruckus. I yell her name over and over and over until my throat is raw and I have exhausted all of my energy. When I no longer have the strength to stand, my legs buckle underneath me and I drop onto the cold filthy floor. For once, I welcome its cold embrace.

And then I fall.

And I fall.

And I fall.

And I…

I wake up with tears in my eyes and the whisper of her name on my lips.

* * *

_I just can't stop writing Delirium fanfiction! But, unlike the previous two that I have written, I'm actually going to continue this one haha._

_Comment, review, tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, etc._

_Thank you all for reading this!_


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